


Of Teashops and Valentines

by dracoroxy



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, M/M, Pining, a lot of fluff, its a valentines fic after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 02:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5989036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoroxy/pseuds/dracoroxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Q,” Madeleine says, coming closer, and he can hear the pout in her voice, “it’s okay to have a crush you know, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” </p><p>“I don’t have a crush,” he says, and his traitor body defies him by starting to blush. </p><p>“Oh you do,” she gasps, “you really do!” </p><p>He sends her a deeply unimpressed look, only to see she’s clutching her chest and looking delighted. </p><p>“This is a day we have to record,” she says, “February 18; the day our darling Q falls for a customer.”<br/> </p><p>(In which Q works at the frilliest teashop in London, Bond exists to make Q’s life a living hell, and the world might possibly hold more than a ton of coffee beans and a mountain of confetti.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Teashops and Valentines

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Of Teashops and Valentines 关于茶店与情人的二三事](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6178963) by [WISSY_G](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WISSY_G/pseuds/WISSY_G)



> For what is Valentine's Day but a great opportunity for fic

It’s a Monday morning when he first sees him. 

 

Q is wiping down the small, round tables, scooping the errant pieces of pink confetti that he hadn’t managed to catch the last 5 times he’d cleaned them. The shop smells of rose petals and coffee beans and a hint of bergamot, which desolately reminds him that he can’t yet take his break. 

 

Yesterday had been Valentine’s Day and Q had spent the whole day working. The shop had been steamy and crowded and Q had been frazzled, trying to manoeuvre himself around the cramped tables whilst keeping his gaze firmly away from the couples who’d sat passionately displaying their affections. 

 

He always worked Valentine’s Day. Madeleine had been with her boyfriend as long as Q had worked here, and every year she begged him to take the shift with Violet, the owner, so that she could have the day off. He didn’t mind. He’d only be spending it at home anyway. He never could see the point in Valentine’s Day. For Q, it only meant a greater crowd at Violet’s Teashop and an afternoon spent picking confetti out of his hair. 

 

The bell over the door tinkles and a woman with glossy dark hair and blood red lips steps inside and shrugs off her coat. Q shows her to one of the empty tables and has just handed her a menu when the bell rings again. 

 

He catches him unawares, the man does. 

 

At first, it’s because a man of his breadth and stature couldn’t possibly have walked into Violet’s voluntarily. The man looks sharp and sleek and impeccably dressed, in a suit that appears to be tailored within an inch of its life. Q can tell the man is well muscled beneath the layers, but he moves with a certain grace, lighter than his solid frame would suggest. Q watches as the man seats himself at a table in the corner and moves his chair so that he’s facing outwards. 

 

Once Q accepts that the man is indeed alone and somehow appears to have wandered into a teashop adorned with frills and bows on every available surface of his own accord, he’s faced with the other reason as to why the man had caught him off-guard; the man is strikingly attractive. 

 

It isn’t purely aesthetic though, is the thing, though he’s certainly nice to look at. It’s something deeper, something within the man’s demeanour. He carries himself with complete assurance, so sure of his every move that confidence seems to emanate from him. Q has always loved confidence in a man. Probably because it’s something he’s often found himself lacking. 

 

The man begins to scan the room, and his gaze lingers next to Q on the lady he’d seated. 

 

 _Straight_ , Q thinks miserably, casting a furtive glance at the woman who continues to read her menu without any awareness of the very attractive man looking her over. Part of him wants to tap her on the shoulder and direct her to what she’s missing, but another, much larger part of him vigorously rejects the idea. 

 

When he looks back over to the man he’s met with ice blue eyes staring directly into his. The man smirks and Q immediately drops his gaze to the cloth in his hand, feeling his cheeks and neck begin to heat. He’s very aware of the fact he’s been caught in the act. He can still feel those striking eyes on him, so he turns to the woman instead, doing his best to ignore it and avidly wishing his face would return to its normal pallor. 

 

“Are you ready to order Madam?” 

 

The woman startles slightly as if she’d forgotten he was standing there. 

 

“Please,” she says, recovering quickly, “chai, and a spoonful of honey if you have it.” 

 

“Of course,” Q replies, taking her menu, and he retreats behind the counter where he can brew the tea. 

 

He hopes Madeleine will serve the man in the corner before Q is finished, but he can see her chatting to a regular at the other side of the counter. Luck has never been on his side. 

 

He finishes brewing the tea and spends more time than strictly necessary stirring in the honey. He takes it to the woman and she thanks him absentmindedly, absorbed in one of the magazines strewn around the shop. With nothing left to distract him, he turns back to the man and notes with relief that the man isn’t looking at him anymore, though he glances up when Q approaches. 

 

“Hello, Sir,” Q says, “what can I get you?” 

 

He’s even more attractive close up. His steely eyes are sharp and everything about him _screams_ cocky, and basically he’s exactly Q’s type. If Q had a type. He thinks he may have just acquired a type. 

 

“Coffee please,” he says, “black.” His eyes stray down to where Q’s nametag is resting, and his forehead creases in a slight frown that he covers quickly, “…Q.” His eyes linger around Q’s jawline on the way back up. 

 

Q wonders if he means to be seductive, or if it’s an inherent part of his nature. He’d assume the latter. Seduction seems to come to the man as easy as breathing. 

 

Q swallows thickly and the man’s eyes dart down to catch it. 

 

“Certainly, Sir,” he says, and he reaches for the menu, but the man keeps a steady grip on it. 

 

“Bond,” he says, and Q is momentarily confused, “James Bond.” 

 

And oh, _oh_. He’s telling Q his name. 

 

“Pleasure,” Q says, and Bond releases the menu. 

 

It only takes a couple of minutes to brew the coffee, and when Q returns and places it on the table Bond thanks him with his lips quirked to the side. It isn’t quite a smile, but Q has the feeling those are very rare from Bond. 

 

He doesn’t say anything further, so Q retrieves his cloth and gets back to wiping tables and occasionally serving customers. He imagines he feels eyes on his back every now and then, but he doesn’t dare look over, not after being caught out the first time. 

 

The woman with the honey tea stands to leave, pulling on her coat. Q has only begun to clear her table when movement from the corner that he is decidedly not watching in his peripheral vision makes him look up. Bond has stood and he drains the rest of his coffee and places it back on the table. He gives Q a nod and a half-smile, (which Q weakly returns), and then he’s out the door. 

 

It’s all rather anticlimactic. Though Q can’t imagine why he’d expected anything more. 

 

He supposes it’s because some part of him had been hoping for it, and he berates himself for being so pitiful. It must be all that pink confetti from yesterday, all the open displays of affection and love heart decorations and Valentine’s specials he’d spent the day creating. It’s turned him into some fanciful dreamer. 

 

He tries to clear his face of any expression of disgust before he serves the next customer. 

 

He spends the rest of the day trying not to think about blue, blue eyes and muscled biceps and a smirk that could make anyone weak at the knees. 

 

His success on the matter isn’t great.

* * * * *

 

In reality, he doesn’t think Bond will ever frequent the teashop again, so he’s exceedingly surprised when he walks through the door 3 days later. 

 

It’s sleeting outside, and Q has spent most of the morning mopping up the puddles people have left as they’ve trodden through. The warmth of the teashop has dried Q’s hair into tufts of curls that form a tangled mess and settle over his forehead. He adjusts the pink apron he wears, which is adorned with various bows and frills and _really, he was destined for greater things than this_ , and goes to wring out the mop when the bell over the door tinkles. He spares half a glance, which turns into a double take when he sees the broad frame stepping over the threshold and placing an umbrella in the stand. 

 

Bond is dressed just as nicely as when Q met him, this time in a grey suit with a sky-blue tie that Q knows, even being as fashion-challenged as he is, would make Bond’s eyes stand out even more than they already do. Bond chooses the same table as last time, setting his chair up the same way so that he faces the room. Q pulls himself out of staring before Bond catches him again, and instead he glances towards the counter, where Madeleine is raising her eyebrows at him and smirking. 

 

He frowns. _What_ , he mouths at her. 

 

She shakes her head and slowly and purposely takes her apron off and hangs it up at the hook behind the counter. _I’m taking my break_ , she mouths, and she saunters off into the backroom. He can tell by her shoulders that she’s laughing. 

 

He vows to spend next Valentine’s Day buying another docking station with her credit details while she suffers through the mass of confetti and cringeworthy PDA. 

 

He places the mop and bucket behind the counter and wipes his hands on his apron as he makes his way over to Bond. Bond’s eyes find him before he’s taken more than a few steps. 

 

“Q,” he greets amiably, as if he’s genuinely happy to see him again. He looks as comfortable as ever, reclining slightly in his chair amongst the expanse of baby pink lace that dresses the table. It’s, _strangely_ , a turn on; a man of his build and looks seeming perfectly at ease in probably the most kitschy, lurid teashop in Britain. 

 

“Mr Bond,” he says politely, “what can I get you?” 

 

“Black coffee please, Q,” Bond says, and Q almost winces. Does he have to keep saying his name? Who knew someone could make a letter sound sinful? It’s unbelievable. 

 

Q drags his eyes away from Bond’s appealing lips, and distractedly takes his menu. 

 

“Right, coming up,” he says, and goes to prepare Bond’s coffee. 

 

Madeleine has actually come out of the backroom to watch, and she stands casually in the doorway eating a sandwich. 

 

“That was brilliant,” she says, swallowing a mouthful of what smells like bologna, “you looked like a little puppy.” 

 

Her accent shortens all of her vowels and draws attention to her full lips. She’s so beautiful it makes him sad. But it doesn't have any affect on her irritation. 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he huffs, and he begins brewing the coffee with his back purposely turned to her. 

 

“Q,” Madeleine says, coming closer, and he can hear the pout in her voice, “it’s okay to have a crush you know, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

 

“I don’t have a crush,” he says, and his traitor body defies him by starting to blush. 

 

“Oh you do,” she gasps, “you really do!” 

 

He sends her a deeply unimpressed look, only to see she’s clutching her chest and looking delighted. 

 

“This is a day we have to record,” she says, “February 18; the day our darling Q falls for a customer.” 

 

“Can you keep your voice down,” Q says blandly. 

 

“He is rather handsome, you know,” Madeleine continues, completely disregarding him. “That’s a beautiful suit. And from what I can tell an incredible body too. I approve.” 

 

“I hate you,” Q says. 

 

“You love me,” she singsongs, bumping him with her hip, and then she takes another bite of her sandwich and trails back into the backroom, giggling. 

 

He wishes he could hate her. He really does. Maybe then she’d stop coming round through the week unannounced and eating all his food. He loves her too much for that, though. He finishes making the coffee and places it on a saucer, carrying it over to Bond who is reading a newspaper spread across the table. He thanks Q and accepts the coffee. 

 

“Who’s the waitress?” he asks casually. 

 

“Madeleine,” Q replies. He barely resists the urge to add on the fact she’s taken. 

 

“A friend of yours?” Bond asks. 

 

Q nods. “I’ve known her for years.”

 

Bond watches him closely, and then nods, seemingly satisfied. 

 

“I see. She’s very lovely,” he says. 

 

Q purses his lips and tries not to look miserable. 

 

“She is,” he agrees, and despite his best efforts it comes out rather dejectedly. 

 

“I prefer darker hair myself,” Bond says, looking amused, and Q thinks he imagines the way Bond’s eyes travel upwards for a split second. 

 

“Right,” Q says after a beat, “right. I’ll just…” he gestures back towards the counter. 

 

Bond merely continues to look at him, amusement written clear in the lines around his eyes. Q scurries back to safety and subtly flips off Madeleine who has re-emerged just to watch him embarrass himself. 

 

Madeleine was right; he has a crush on a customer. A customer who looks as if they seduce for a living, no less. 

 

He wonders if he can call in sick tomorrow on the grounds of saving himself from impending embarrassment. He starts cleaning the counter with a frown. He doesn’t quite think Violet will go for that.

* * * * *

 

Bond comes in almost every other day for the next two weeks. He sits at the same table every time, and orders the same thing, and he’ll always chat with Q for a while, even if it’s just to ask him how he is. 

 

Q is becoming more enamoured every day he’s in. 

 

“Do you think he knows?” Q asks, bent over the counter with his chin resting in his hand. 

 

Bond had just left, actually coming to the counter to say goodbye to Q and sending him a wink as he walked out the door. A wink. Q is still in a state of disbelief. 

 

“That you have a crush on him?” Madeleine shrugs. “Probably. He does seem quite perceptive.” 

 

He groans and Madeleine pats his back sympathetically. 

 

“If it helps, I think he likes you too. At the very least he certainly finds you attractive.” 

 

“And how would you know that?” 

 

“Because he stares at you all the time,” she says as though he’s missing something obvious. “Most of the time you just aren’t looking.” 

 

Q drops his head into his hands. 

 

“You’re lying,” he says, and it comes out muffled. 

 

“I’m not,” Madeleine laughs. 

 

Q raises his head to glare at her. 

 

“You’re loving this aren’t you?” 

 

“Yep,” she says, and she wanders off to serve some customers. 

 

Q drops his head onto the counter with a thud.

* * * * *

 

Q expects Bond to come in a couple of days after, but he doesn’t. 

 

When he doesn’t show for a week, Madeleine frowns at him when they close the shop. 

 

“Where’s your lover boy?” she asks. “He hasn’t been in for a while.” 

 

Q shrugs.

 

“I don’t know,” he says. 

 

“He didn’t say anything?” 

 

“Why would he?” Q says, a little bitterly. “We’re not friends.” 

 

“I thought—“ she says, and then she cuts herself off, still frowning at him. 

 

“Quite,” Q says, and he adjusts his coat, avoiding her gaze. 

 

Another two weeks pass without Bond coming to the shop, and Madeleine doesn’t mention it again.

* * * * *

 

There’s a knock at the door. 

 

It’s 10 to 9 and Q is closing up the shop, and he’d already put the closed sign on the door. 

 

It can’t be Madeleine because he knows she’s on a date with her boyfriend tonight, and Violet would use her key. It has to be a late customer demanding to be served since they don’t technically close until 9. He’s dealt with this plenty of times before. 

 

He sighs and drops the cloth in his hand, walking over to the door and unlocking it. Only then does he look through the glass and into the face of James Bond. 

 

He blinks at him for a moment, and then he opens the door cautiously. 

 

“I’m not too late for coffee, am I?” Bond says, smooth as ever, looking every bit as handsome as he did three weeks ago. 

 

“We’re closing,” Q says absently. 

 

“Alright,” Bond says, “I’ll come back in tomorrow.” He steps back and Q grabs onto his arm before he knows what he's doing. He can feel hard muscle beneath his fingers. 

 

“No,” he shakes his head and leads Bond over the threshold; “I’ll make you coffee.” 

 

Bond smiles at him gratefully, and this time it isn’t amused, or charming, or for some other purpose. It just is. And Q thinks it’s the first time he’s seen Bond smile for real. He drops his hand from Bond’s arm and goes to brew the coffee. Bond takes a seat at the bench along the window and shrugs off his suit jacket. 

 

It’s quiet for a while; the only sounds being Q making the coffee and a cup of earl grey, and of the wind howling against the windows. Q hangs up his apron and carries the coffee and tea over to the bench, taking a seat next to Bond. 

 

“You haven’t been in for a while,” he can’t help saying, asking. 

 

Bond nods as he takes a sip of his coffee. He swallows, and Q wants to chase the movement with his fingertips. 

 

“I travel a lot for work.” 

 

“Oh? What do you do?” 

 

“Security,” Bond says. 

 

It’s rather vague, but Q nods. He can definitely see Bond in some sort of security role. He certainly has the body for it; Q can see his defined arms and chest more clearly without his suit jacket on. He feels rather warm. 

 

“What about you?” Bond murmurs, “Do you enjoy working here?” 

 

Q takes a sip of his tea and takes a moment to think about it. 

 

“I suppose I do,” he says softly, “but I always imagined doing something else, you know? I had different dreams growing up.” He stares down into his tea, but he can feel Bond watching him closely. 

 

“What is it that you wanted to do?” 

 

“I’m good with computers.” It’s the understatement of the century, but Q doesn’t want to brag. 

 

“Are you?” Bond looks genuinely interested. 

 

“I’m better than good,” Q says, and well, Bond did ask. 

 

“So what’s stopping you?” 

 

He shrugs. 

 

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I guess I’m just comfortable here.” 

 

“Are you?” Bond asks. Q turns to look at him, but he’s turned towards the window. Streetlamps light the road outside and the sidewalks are almost deserted. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be.”

 

“I shouldn’t be?’

 

“No,” Bond turns back to look at him, and his eyes glint under the shop’s lighting. “People think of life as something guaranteed. It isn’t. It’s a lot shorter than most people think.” He pauses. “Do you want to spend your final moments thinking about what you could have been instead of what you were?”

 

Q takes a breath, lets it out slowly. 

 

“You’ve thought about this,” he says. 

 

Bond smiles ruefully, “my life isn’t very comfortable.” 

 

Q thinks about what he said before, about traveling a lot. It would be lonely he thinks, all those foreign surroundings and hotel rooms. 

 

“Do you ever want comfortable?” he asks. 

 

Bond turns back to the window and Q’s gaze is drawn to his hands, one curled around his coffee cup and the other resting on the bench. They’re callused and worn, scars stark against his tan skin. 

 

“Sometimes,” Bond admits. 

 

They finish the rest of their drinks in silence, and it’s a comfortable Q doesn’t want to surrender.

* * * * *

 

Things go back to normal after that, meaning Bond frequents the teashop again. 

 

Just over a week after Bond had returned, Madeleine comes into the backroom while Q is sitting at the table taking his break. 

 

“Bond’s brought someone,” she says. 

 

“Brought someone?” Q repeats. ”Who?” 

 

“How would I know?” Madeleine says. “She’s a woman, killer shoes, very pretty.” 

 

Q stumbles out of the backroom to take a look. Sure enough, Bond sits at his usual table in his usual seat, but this time there’s a beautiful woman sitting across from him. The woman is laughing, and she has her hand on Bond’s arm. Bond is smirking back at her, his body language oozing charm. 

 

“They look close,” Q says. 

 

“I don’t know,” Madeleine says doubtfully, “He doesn’t look at her like he looks at you.” 

 

Q sighs. “Cut it out.” 

 

“What?” Madeleine says, “I’m being serious.” 

 

As Q watches, Bond leans over to murmur something in the woman’s ear and she laughs again. Q kind of wants to break something. Madeleine looks sympathetic beside him. 

 

“I can serve them, if you want?” 

 

Q shakes his head. 

 

“It’s fine. I’ll do it.” 

 

Technically he’s cutting his break short, but he grabs his apron off the hook and ties it back on. Bond and his friend stop talking when Q approaches, and when Bond redirects his charming smile to Q; Q’s knees nearly buckle beneath him. 

 

“Q,” Bond greets, “this is my colleague, Eve.” 

 

“Welcome,” Q says. 

 

“Thank you,” Eve smiles at him politely, “what a wonderful little shop.” She looks towards Bond amusedly. “Though I never would have thought you’d be a regular.” 

 

Bond looks thoroughly unruffled. 

 

“Good coffee,” he says. “Hard to find that around London these days.” 

 

“Right,” Eve says, squinting a little suspiciously, “good coffee.” 

 

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Q buts in, and he really does not want to wait around to watch the man he’s steadfastly crushing on flirt with someone else. 

 

“The usual please Q,” Bond says, and Eve looks as if she’s trying not to laugh. 

 

“Just a latte, thanks.” 

 

Q goes back behind the counter to make their orders, watching them from the corner of his eye. Eve is saying something to Bond, grin spread over her face, and Bond is shaking his head, looking amused. Did he really have to bring her in here? What if she comes in with him all the time now and he has to watch him flirt with her every second day? He’ll have to quit. He imagines putting that down on his resignation letter. He thinks Violet would slap him and tell him to clean out the fridge. 

 

He places their drinks on the table and then hurries off to serve the other customers. He tries to avoid looking anywhere near that corner for the next twenty minutes, but every time he does they look to be wholly enjoying each others company. When he’s served a few customers and cleared a few tables he passes Madeleine behind the counter. 

 

“I’m going to take the rest of my break,” he says, and Madeleine nods. 

 

He collapses back into a chair at the tiny table and rests his head on his arms. He’s only been like that for a couple of minutes or so when Madeleine sticks her head around the corner. 

 

“Q,” she says, “you have a visitor at the counter.” 

 

He knows who it’s going to be before he sees Bond leaning up against the counter, looking dashingly handsome. Q can see Eve lingering by the door, pretending not to watch. 

 

“I wanted to catch you before I left,” Bond says, “to say goodbye.” 

 

“Goodbye?” 

 

“I’m leaving again, for work,” Bond says. “I’m not sure how long it will be.” 

 

“Oh,” Q says, and his stomach sinks. He tries not to look too disappointed. “Well you know where we are when you come back.” 

 

“I do,” Bond says, and then he leans forward slightly, and Q is helpless but to copy him. “By the way,” he says, “Eve thinks you’re very lovely, but I’ve told her you’re off bounds. You don’t mind, do you?” 

 

Q is very aware that his jaw has dropped open and he stares at Bond with wide eyes, floundering for something to say. He doesn’t get to say anything before Bond is winking at him and disappearing out the door. 

 

Madeleine walks past and taps him on the chin. 

 

“Close your mouth,” she says. 

 

He does what she says. 

 

“Do you believe me yet?” 

 

He shakes his head. “Flirting is in his nature.” 

 

Madeleine whips him with a cloth and then throws it into the sink. 

 

“Men are idiots,” she grumbles, and Q doesn’t disagree.

* * * * *

 

Q doesn’t see Bond again for six weeks. 

 

He spends most of that time snapping his head up whenever the bell above the door rings, and deliberately avoiding Madeleine’s knowing looks. When April becomes May and the weather starts to warm and Bond _still hasn’t returned_ , Madeleine confronts him about his depleting mood. Outside the sun is shining and the shop is warm and bright, and Q arrives for his shift already feeling wearied. It’s early afternoon and the shop is quiet, and Madeleine glances up at him from a magazine she’s reading behind the counter. 

 

“Morning,” she greets.

 

“Hey Mads.” 

 

He puts his stuff in the backroom and returns, tying his apron. Madeleine leans against the counter, her arms crossed in front of her chest. 

 

“You know,” she starts, “if I knew you having a crush would make you this miserable, I might not have encouraged it.” 

 

“It’s not about that,” he says wearily. 

 

“But you’re admitting something’s wrong?” 

 

“I didn’t say that either.” 

 

Her face softens and she uncrosses her arms, pulling him in so that he has to look at her. 

 

“What is it?” 

 

“It’s nothing,” he shrugs. “I’m tired.” 

 

It isn’t a lie, he’s been feeling drained the last few weeks, and he can’t pretend it has nothing to do with the conversation he had with Bond. It’s just… it got him thinking again. About how he always thought his life would go, the things he thought he’d accomplish. He’d told Bond that he was comfortable, but is he happy here? Madeleine is, with her bright lips and cheery disposition, and how she springs into the shop in the morning with a smile at the ready. 

 

But where would he begin? How would he even know where to start? And he can’t imagine it, leaving the shop, leaving Madeleine and Violet and the regulars. And Bond. Madeleine looks at him as if she knows what he’s thinking. 

 

“You should quit,” she says. 

 

He raises his eyebrows at her in shock. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Oh come on Q, you’re wasted here. I know what you’re capable of and it isn’t making hazelnut frappés.” 

 

“There’s nothing wrong with making frappés,” he says. 

 

“There isn’t,” she agrees gently, “but there’s also nothing wrong with wanting to do something else.” 

 

He shrugs, twists out of her grip so that he doesn’t have to look at her. 

 

“I don’t want to do anything else,” he says, and he’s never been a good liar. 

 

She’s quiet, for a moment, and then “okay,” she says, and Q tries not to think about it anymore.

* * * * *

 

So, it’s six weeks without Bond when Q is sitting at the counter in darkness, the only light coming from his laptop, from which he’s designing a new program which will, hopefully when finished, be able to track people based on their internet habits and search terms. He doesn’t know what he’d ever use it for, but he wants to create it anyway. 

 

He closed the shop about an hour ago, and turned the lights off so that he wouldn’t be disturbed. He could probably do this at home, but he likes it here better than his shabby flat, and there isn’t anything to distract him. 

 

His eyes are starting to droop a little in the quiet, and a knock at the door nearly makes him jump out of his seat. It’s too dark to see who it is, but his stomach flips in anticipation. 

 

“Bond,” he exhales when he opens the door. 

 

Bond is standing outside, looking utterly exhausted. There’s a cut above his right eyebrow, and he doesn’t know whether it’s merely the lighting or if there’s a patch of purple bruising around his jaw. He smiles, and then grimaces a little, and Q doesn’t think that it’s the lighting. 

 

“Come in,” he says, and he leads Bond over to the counter, pulling up a chair for him. 

 

Bond has a limp, he notes, though he’s doing a skilful job of hiding it. 

 

“Coffee?” he offers, and Bond nods gratefully. 

 

He turns one of the lights back on and gets to work. 

 

“You’re back,” he says over his shoulder. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d found a different place to get your coffee fix.” 

 

“Never,” Bond says, and Q can hear the tired smile in his voice, “it wouldn’t be the same.” 

 

“We’re not the only place in London that does black coffee, you know.” He pours the coffee into the cup, and considers making a tea for himself, but after the five cups he’s already had today, the caffeine probably isn’t a good idea with an opening shift in the morning. 

 

“I know,” Bond says. 

 

Q hands him the coffee, but then he pauses and keeps a hold of it. 

 

“Should I be giving you this?” he says. “You look exhausted. You should be sleeping.” 

 

“Do you say this to all of your customers?” Bond says. 

 

“We’re past closing,” Q retorts, “you’re not a customer anymore.” 

 

“No?” Bond says, “Then I suppose I’ll have to pay differently.” 

 

He reaches into one of his jacket pockets and pulls out a small box, which he places on the counter and slides across to Q. Q gives him a questioning look, and Bond nods at him, _go ahead_. 

 

He picks it up. It’s a box of tea, Earl Grey, to be exact. From India. The design on the box is intricate, with flowers and patterns intertwined in orange and gold. He’s a little overcome by the thoughtfulness. 

 

“How did you know?” he asks, still tracing the patterns with his thumb. 

 

“You drank it last time I came back,” Bond says, “and you always smell of bergamot”. 

 

Q hasn’t yet lifted his eyes. 

 

“You always know what to say to make me not know what to say at all,” he says softly. 

 

Bond laughs. “I’ve been told it’s a habit.” 

 

Q smiles, and then he raises his head, and he’s sure Bond can see all the things he’s feeling written clear across his face. 

 

“Thank you, James,” he says, and Bond’s answering smile seems to erase some of the weariness from his bearing. 

 

“You’re welcome, Q.”

* * * * *

 

Things continue on like that for months – Bond visits the shop almost every day for a week of two and then he leaves for long periods, often bringing back little souvenirs from various parts of the world. Despite the fact he never knows when Bond is coming back, or even what it is that he does while he’s away, Bond becomes a steady presence in his life. 

 

He doesn’t even really know Bond all that well. Q can tell he keeps a lot to himself, but he listens. Q tells him about growing up in a big old house without any siblings to keep him company, and how he turned to books, and computers, and how that made his school years decidedly difficult. He tells him about his parents, who he hardly ever sees, and about the programs he’s creating in his spare time. It probably should feel weird, that Bond knows so much about him when he knows hardly anything in return, but it isn’t. 

 

And he might not know the details of Bond’s life, but he knows he takes his coffee black. He knows that Bond lies well, that he loves London but longs for somewhere quieter, that he’s fluent in five languages but passable in more. And for all he appears completely at ease, he’s always on high alert. 

 

Q thinks he knows enough about Bond to justify the way he glows whenever Bond returns.

* * * * *

 

In the lead up to Christmas Violet’s Teashop is completely revamped. 

 

The pink bows become red and gold wreaths, Christmas balls and bells dangle from every available surface, and there’s an actual Christmas tree taking up a whole section of the shop. It’s safe to say Violet goes a little overboard with the decorating, and Madeleine is more than happy to help her. As much as Q grumbles about the tinsel and the Christmas carols playing on repeat, the shop is warm and cheery, and the smell of cinnamon and cloves is enough to put even the crankiest customer in a joyful mood. 

 

With three days to go until Christmas, the shop is a buzz, filled with people escaping the cold to warm themselves up with a Christmas-themed latte or tea. Q had come in this morning only to be immediately assaulted by Violet, all 5’1” of her, who had placed a pair of _reindeer antlers_ on his head with bells that jingled every time he so much as took a breath. (She’d had to make him bend down to place it on his head). She’d left with strict instructions for him to _keep it on, or else I’ll know about it_ , and put Madeleine in charge of supervising him. 

 

He thinks the whole thing is even more humiliating than the frilly apron he wears on a normal day. 

 

Q is currently wiping down one of the corner tables, but his eyes are staring out the window at the snow falling along the sidewalk. He’s more excited about the prospect of a white Christmas than he’s been letting on. Frank Sinatra is crooning from the speakers and Madeleine is shimmying while she sprinkles cinnamon over mugs of gingerbread lattes. 

 

He sees Bond before Bond sees him. 

 

He’s crossing the street with his hands in the pockets of his coat, looking like something out of a winter wardrobe fashion issue. He doesn’t get to see much more of him before Madeleine is suddenly right beside him. 

 

“Someone’s just ordered a chestnut praline latte and I can’t make them like you do,” she says. “Can you please do it?” 

 

Q frowns at her. 

 

“You make them better than I do.” 

 

She narrows her eyes at him and places her hands on her hips, and he's promptly reminded that Madeleine can go from sweet to terrifying in a matter of seconds. 

 

“Just do it,” she says. 

 

He sighs but isn’t stupid enough to refuse, and spends the next 5 minutes creating a sickly sweet atrocity he wouldn’t drink if he was given it for free. When he’s done, Bond is already sitting at his table, and he smirks at Q when he approaches. 

 

“Nice antlers.”

 

“Prick,” Q says, and Bond laughs, actually flashing white teeth, and Q thinks Bond might not be immune to the Christmas spirit after all. “So, a spiced cookie latte for you then?” Q asks, feigning innocence. 

 

Bond’s grin falls away immediately. 

 

“Absolutely not.” 

 

“Well, insult my antlers again and that’s what you’ll be getting.” Bond’s lips twitch but he stays quiet, and his expression is fond. “I’ll get you that coffee,” Q says, and he retreats before he can embarrass himself. 

 

The tiny teashop begins to fill, as tired Christmas shoppers come in to get their caffeine fix. Q drops off Bond’s coffee and then hurries around taking orders, and Madeleine is behind the counter pumping out coffees and teas and plating up baked goods at an impressive rate. Violet’s been promising she’ll hire another person by the end of the year, but Q’s yet to see sight of them. 

 

Once things begin to quiet down a little, Q takes a second to breathe and brush back the errant curls that touch the top of his glasses. To his surprise, Bond is still sitting in the corner, so Q ambles over and leans against the chair opposite him. 

 

“Still here?” 

 

“Still here,” Bond confirms, and then he glances up at the ceiling, amusement spread across his features. 

 

Q’s eyes follow his gaze and he finds himself looking at—

 

 _Mistletoe_. 

 

Directly above Bond’s table. 

 

He’s going to have Madeleine killed. 

 

He slowly lowers his eyes back to Bond, who is watching him with a smirk playing around his mouth. 

 

“You’ve redecorated,” he says. 

 

“Indeed,” Q replies dryly, willing his face not to redden, “I believe this is Madeleine’s doing.” 

 

“Is that so?” Bond says, still smirking. And Q can feel an impending blush. He needs to disappear immediately. 

 

“Well yes,” he says, “anyway I can't spend all day entertaining you—“ 

 

Before he can finish that thought Bond is reaching for his hand and pulling it across to him. He pauses to look Q dead in the eye, then he brushes his lips over the back of Q’s knuckles, pressing slowly, softly against them. 

 

Q is quite sure he has died somewhere in the middle of this interaction. His knees are feeling like they could buckle at any minute. 

 

“Mistletoe,” Bond murmurs, and Q can feel his lips moving against his skin. 

 

He lingers there, and then he lets go of Q’s hand and stands. 

 

“Merry Christmas, Q,” he says, and Q thinks he wishes him a merry Christmas in return. 

 

Bond flicks one of the bells on his antlers so it jingles, and then he leaves. Q sinks down into the chair he’s grasping with white knuckles and stares out into the snowfall. ‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas’ is playing from the speakers; the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg wafts through the air, cups chime as they brush against saucers and Q…

 

Q thinks he might just be in love.

* * * * *

 

Of course, the realisation is terribly futile when Bond doesn’t show for a couple of weeks. 

 

It isn’t uncommon for Bond to disappear without telling Q beforehand, but he’d thought, being Christmas, that Bond’s employers might have cut him a bit of slack. Obviously not. 

 

With the teashop being closed over Christmas, Q, thankfully, gets a few days off, and he, unthankfully, travels out of town to visit his parents. He spends Christmas dinner fending off his father’s inquiries about when he’ll be finding a ‘real’ job, and his mother’s critiques on his ‘too-thin’ appearance. It’s rather tiring, and he’s actually glad to have the shop as an excuse to get back to town. Which, says a lot about his life really. 

 

He finds himself looking forward to seeing Bond in the shop though. He’ll tell Bond about his parents’ criticisms and Bond will say something Q will pretend to be offended by on his parents’ behalf, but that will ultimately make him feel better about the whole situation. 

 

But Bond isn’t there when he returns. And he isn’t there the next week. Which is fine because Q is used to Bond’s disappearing act, but his absence is a little different when Q might be in love with him. Is probably in love with him. He doesn’t want to think about it too much. Especially when he doesn’t even know what part of the world Bond is currently in. 

 

So he continues on with his life, even though he finds work in the shop becoming more tedious every day, and he tries not to wait for Bond to come back.

* * * * *

 

It’s 2am when his phone rings, and his heart begins to race the moment he wakes. 

 

Nothing good can come out of a phone call at two in the morning, he thinks. 

 

He isn’t wrong.

* * * * *

 

Bond is sleeping, when he gets there. 

 

His face is a motley of purple bruises. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and there is blood caked into his short blonde hair. The rest of the damage isn’t visible, but Q knows it’s there. Broken ribs, a bullet wound, various fractures, a concussion. He doesn’t want to cry but his eyes are stinging, and he reaches for Bond’s hand, overlooking the blood dried under his nails, and squeezes it hard. 

 

He stays like that for hours, holding Bond’s hand, and he eventually falls asleep with his head resting against the bed. 

 

He wakes, later, when the sun has risen in the sky and the room is awash with white. At first, he’s not sure why he awoke, but then he feels the thumb brushing over the back of his hand. 

 

“You’re here,” Bond says, or rather, he tries to, before breaking out into a coughing fit. 

 

Q immediately drops his hand and reaches for the water on the side table, helping Bond to take a sip from the straw. When he’s finished, Q places the cup back on the table. 

 

“They told me I was one of your emergency contacts.” He looks at Bond, carefully, looks at the bruising and the blood and feels his chest begin to tighten. “I hadn’t even given you my number, Bond.” 

 

Bond sighs, staring up at the ceiling, and then winces, and Q can’t help but squeeze his hand sympathetically. 

 

Bond squeezes back and then turns back to face him. 

 

“I haven’t told you everything,” he says. 

 

Q shakes his head. “You don’t have to.” 

 

“I do,” Bond says, thumb still tracing Q’s knuckles, “and I want to.” 

 

“Does it matter that much?” Q asks, and he’s thinking of secrets, and blindness, and a whole lifetime of waiting for Bond to come home while he sits around helplessly. 

 

Bond brings Q’s hand to his lips, a mirror of two weeks ago, and presses his lips against it. 

 

“You do,” he says, warm breath ghosting over Q’s skin. 

 

Bond tells him everything.

* * * * *

 

He takes it in his stride, dating a spy. 

 

Well, kind of dating. Seeing. He’s not sure about the terminology. 

 

Bond gets himself released from hospital in a matter of days and Q notes the expressions of relief on the nurses’ faces when they discharge him. Q takes Bond straight back to Q’s flat, and Bond doesn’t put up a fuss at all. 

 

“My flat isn’t very…homely,” he says, as they leave the hospital. “I have a habit of dying and they keep selling my flat and all of my furniture.” 

 

Q decides to leave that question to another day. 

 

He’s a little nervous letting Bond into his flat. It becomes very evident upon entering that Q hasn’t ever actually seen Bond outside of the teashop, and now, well, the hospital. But Bond, here, standing in the middle of his flat (aided by crutches he despises), surrounded by bookcases and gaming systems and cat beds and his mess of tech taking up half the living room, it makes his heart thump a little feebly. 

 

“Tea?” he offers, and Bond nods. 

 

“Please.” 

 

He’s halfway through boiling the kettle and pulling out two mugs when he stops short. 

 

“Ah,” he says, “I’ve just realised you’ve been coming into the teashop for almost a year and I’ve never made you tea. I don’t know how you take it.” 

 

Bond is still facing away from him, but Q can hear the smile in his voice when he replies. 

 

“Black.” 

 

Q rolls his eyes, but he knows he’s smiling fondly. 

 

“For a spy, you're fairly predictable.”

 

When he takes the cups of tea to his living room and places them down on the coffee table, Bond is running his fingers over the system units he’d taken apart and was in the process of putting back together, albeit a little differently. 

 

“It’s very you,” Bond says. “The flat.” 

 

“Well, I do live here,” Q replies. 

 

Bond sends him a look and then taps the monitor. “You really love this, don’t you?” 

 

“Yes,” Q says. 

 

“And you’re very good at it.” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

Bond pauses, thoughtfully, and then he says, a genuine smile spreading across his face; “I might have an offer for you.”

* * * * *

 

Q thinks it’s very fitting that his last day at the teashop is Valentine’s Day. It’s like the universe is giving him a final kick up the ass and out of the door. 

 

The shop has returned to its detailed pink décor, complete with ribbons and lace and to Q’s absolute dismay, a mass of confetti blanketing a good portion of the tables, the counter, and parts of the floor. 

 

He’s never been gladder to be getting out of here. 

 

The only saving grace is the new girl Violet has hired, who has been assisting Violet and him all morning, making the cramped shop immensely easier to deal with. 

 

“I’m going to take my break,” he tells her when things have quietened down a little, and she smiles at him, bright and happy. She’ll fit right in here, Q thinks. 

 

“Okay,” she says, and sets about cleaning the steamer. 

 

Before he can withdraw into the backroom, though, Madeleine steps through the door, bell tinkling over her head and boyfriend in tow. 

 

“Q!” she cries as she makes her way across to him, “I had to see you on your last day.” She throws her arms around him and he returns the hug, laughing fondly. 

 

“It’s not like you’ll never see me again.” 

 

“Yes but you won’t be working with me. It won’t be the same.” The words are muffled against his shoulder and he holds onto her shoulders and pulls her away enough to look at her. 

 

“I thought you wanted me to go,” he says. 

 

“I do, of course,” she says. “But you won’t forget about me will you?” 

 

“Madeleine,” he says, “You’re coming over this week for dinner.” 

 

“You know what I mean,” she says, and she swats lightly at his shoulder. 

 

Q sobers and smiles at her, and she returns it. “I could never,” he says. “Now get out of here. Unless you’d like to put on an apron and help out?” 

 

She grabs her boyfriend and exits the shop very quickly. 

 

“See you later!” she calls over her shoulder on her way out. 

 

It’s only because he’s watching her leave that he sees her almost run head first into Bond on the way out. 

 

“You’re meant to be at home recovering!” he scolds, once Bond makes his way over to the counter, but he can’t quite keep the smile off his face at seeing Bond walking about on his own and back in the teashop. 

 

“But what if I wanted coffee?” 

 

Q rolls his eyes and gestures towards the corner table, but then he halts. 

 

“It looks like you’re a little late,” Q says. 

 

Bond turns around to look, and narrows his eyes at the two ladies sitting primly at his table drinking cups of tea. 

 

“That spot had the best vantage point,” he grumbles. 

 

Q laughs. 

 

“I have a better vantage point,” he says, and he tows Bond into the backroom by the hand. 

 

As soon as they’re out of the public eye, Q pushes Bond up against the wall and kisses him, soft and desperate, and Bond curls a hand into Q’s hair. He doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of kissing Bond. It’s certainly an experience. He’s so lost in Bond’s mouth, Bond’s heat, that he startles when he feels something soft fall over his head and shoulders. He pulls back from Bond and ruffles his hair, and a whole heap of confetti floats down to the floor. 

 

He stares at Bond incredulously, who is barely restraining the grin threatening to spread across his face. He leans in to kiss Q’s neck. 

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Superior.”

 

Q huffs out a laugh. “You're a menace. And I’m not your Quartermaster Bond.”

 

“You will be,” Bond says. “One day.” 

 

“Oh yeah?” Q says, “and how many workplace policies would we be violating?” 

 

“You see,” Bond says, smirking against Q’s neck, “I’ve never been one to play by the rules.” 

 

“Lucky me,” Q says, and he knows its true when Bond huffs and pulls him in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> ((p.s. come say hello on [tumblr](http://illyakray.tumblr.com/) :) ))


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